


How to Join the Mile High Club Without Even Trying

by sirona



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-21
Updated: 2010-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-15 11:54:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirona/pseuds/sirona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where Arthur is a Flight Attendant, and Eames is the obnoxiously charming passenger who steals his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Join the Mile High Club Without Even Trying

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the inception_kink meme on LJ. A little disclaimer: I have flown quite a lot, but I know NOTHING about 747s, or being a Flight Attendant. So this is mainly me improvising like crazy, and I hope no one takes offence by my portrayal of them. I've based this on the seat layout of the KML Boeing 747-400, for no other reason than it popped up first in my Google search. I'm sure I've got a load of stuff wrong; by all means, set me straight (so to speak)!
> 
> Disclaimer: Inception belongs to Chris Nolan.

Arthur maintains his rictus of a smile all the way to the back of his and Ariadne’s section of the plane, swishing the curtain closed with motions so economical and sharp that they could cut the unwary. Ariadne hides her grin, ducking her head and studiously stocking their drinks cart.

“Chin up, Arthur! It’s your last shift!” she chirps cheerfully.

Arthur wants to strangle her. He would, too, except that would leave him having to cope with the entire passenger load by himself, and he’s already at the end of his tether. He bares his teeth at her, but it only makes her giggle at him. He deflates a little in the face of all that friendliness. It _is_ his last day working as a Flight Attendant, after all.

“What’s got your knickers in a twist this time?” Ariadne asks over her shoulder as she fetches the meal trays and starts loading them onto the cart. Arthur sighs his irritation and reaches over to help her, the familiar, repetitive motions soothing his temper.

“We have our two newest Mile High Club members. I swear they get younger every year -- those two look barely fifteen, for fuck’s sake!” he fumes fruitlessly. “ _And_ they were discovered by Outraged Matron #3!”

Ariadne’s face contorts in horror. “The one in 12A?” she squeaks.

“The very same,” Arthur returns, mollified by her cringe.

“Was she horrible?” she asks timidly.

“Told me she’d have me fired if it happened again on this flight,” Arthur sneers.

Ariadne’s horrified giggles fill the small space. “Oh, I’d _pay_ to see her try that on Saito-san,” she gasps, clutching her ribs. “A whole month’s wages. It would be worth it.”

The last of Arthur’s vile mood dissipates in the face of the mental image this evokes. “He’d probably buy her employer out and have her chucked on her ass instead,” he says dryly, a smirk curving his lips.

Ariadne, who had just about managed to pull herself together, loses it again. Arthur waits it out while he busies himself sorting through the trays and getting the cart ready.

“Let’s get going, we’re running late as it is,” he tells her and pokes at her until she’s got the giggles under control.

~~

Long-haul flights are the absolute worst, Arthur muses. It’s a Sydney to Los Angeles flight, ten hours on a 747 in Economy Class -- otherwise known as hell on earth. Since it’s his last shift, Arthur’s automatically forfeited his turn in Business Class -- well, of course they rotate, it’s only fair to get one decent shift every two weeks. Today it’s Mal’s turn; Arthur imagines the spate of good reviews the airline’s going to have on arrival, since Mal is class personified. Honestly, if she’d wanted it, Business Class would be hers all the time -- good thing’s she’s just as classy with her friends and colleagues, or they’d be confined to hell with no hope of reprieve.

Arthur grins and bears it with as much grace as he can muster in the face of the puking kid in 9E and the nauseating face sucking of the two wannabe Mile-Highers in 11D and E. He’d like to tell himself that there’s nothing that he’ll miss about working as a Flight Attendant, but he’s not in the habit of deluding himself. The human mind is a funny thing. Given enough time, he’s going to forget all the assholes, the unpleasant smells and sounds, the ungrateful bastards drinking too much free champagne and complaining loudly when their glass is empty, and feel nostalgic about the (fewer, but just as important) nice things -- the genuine thanks in the eyes of harried mothers when he distracts their little angels from screaming their heads off with a plushie, or a colouring book and some crayons; the sense of accomplishment inherent in talking down an anxious flier having a panic attack; the four marriage proposals and tearful acceptances he’s witnessed in his five and a half years of doing this job.

“Darling, can I borrow your extraordinarily clever brains for a mo?”

Arthur closes his eyes for a second, bracing himself. Oh, yes. And then there’s Eames.

Arthur had spent well over two years trying to categorise Eames, before realisation had struck during one ridiculously turbulent flight -- Eames is a category _all on his own_.

In the four years since Eames has been taking this flight, Arthur has learned quite a few things about the ridiculous, obnoxiously charming man. He is a writer of some sort, that much Arthur had worked out by himself within the first two flights. He takes the ten hour haul once a month in each direction, unfailingly coinciding with Arthur’s shifts. He’s not married -- no evidence of a ring on either hand. Arthur hadn’t meant to check, truly, but when every woman on board (and a few men) crane their necks to check Eames’ left hand within moments of him walking through the cabin door, it’s difficult not to get swept up by the flow.

Eames had taken one look at Arthur and christened him Darling, but only Arthur gets this treatment, which the rest of the crew and the staff on the ground find endlessly entertaining. He has the most delicious lips Arthur has ever seen on any human being; he’s tall, bulky without running to flab, and Arthur finds it increasingly difficult to hide that he wants to curl up at night in his arms.

He likes strawberries, and Arthur has to excuse himself after he serves them, because Eames eating a strawberry in plain sight of people susceptible to a heart condition should be outlawed in every country around the world. He also likes chocolate, which _should_ be innocent enough, if it weren’t for the sound he makes when he pops the first square in his mouth -- a barely suppressed whimper deep in his throat, whereupon Arthur has to excuse himself _again_.

He’s British, that much is evident as soon as he opens his mouth, even if you discard all the tweed and plaids as a rich man’s eccentricity. Because he is -- rumour has it that he’s absolutely _loaded_ , yet he persists in flying Economy, even if it is Comfort. It’s not a contradiction all on its own -- the man’s a mess of them. Cheerfully talkative, yet as secretive as a paranoid old man with a grudge. Loud, yet courteous. The kids adore him, and he indulges them almost too much, yet he spares not a glance for their mothers’ flirtatious and increasingly desperate antics to get his attention. He flirts outrageously with all the crew members, yet is unfailingly respectful of them and their work. He is never demanding, yet he commands everyone’s attention effortlessly.

Oh yes, and another thing -- Arthur is in love with him.

He makes his way over to 15C, where Eames always sits, every single flight. It’s closer to the back of the Economy Comfort Class area, and it falls just so that Arthur serves him each time the cart passes.

“Yes, Mr Eames?” his voice is as level as he can make it, which is very. If there’s one thing Arthur excels at, it’s control.

“Eames, Darling, just Eames,” Eames says, just as he has done every time since he introduced himself.

As usual, Arthur ignores him, giving every impression of waiting patiently for Eames’ desire (if only).

Eames’ generous lips twitch a little. Arthur knows as well as Eames does that the man enjoys their little verbal spars -- maybe a little too much, going by the frequency with which he draws Arthur into them. Outraged Matron #3 would be appalled.

“I’ve gone and left my Thesaurus in my suitcase. Help me out; what’s another word for ‘obtusion’?”

Arthur clasps his hands at the small of his back, narrows his eyes and purses his lips, too focused to notice the way Eames’ eyes flicker down to linger on them for a moment. “Deadened? Dulled?” Arthur muses, staring at the wall.

Eames beams. “I knew I could rely on you, Darling,” he exclaims happily and goes back to scribbling in his reporter’s notebook. Arthur knows from his not-as-concealed-as-he-likes-to-think observations that Eames never uses a laptop unless he’s on the final draft of whatever he’s working on.

Arthur smiles faintly and moves on, pleasure warming his chest at Eames’ praise. If he could see himself in a mirror right now, he’d be shocked by how much the slight flush high on his cheekbones and the spark in his eye change his appearance; consequently, he’s oblivious to the admiring stares he attracts in his blue-green shirt and navy vest, his tie perfectly straight and tucked fastidiously into said vest.

~~

He’s staring into nothing, a cardinal sin for a Flight Attendant, when a frantic arm waving draws his eyes to the front of the cabin. Mal is standing there, perfectly put together as usual in their uniform, and looking like a million dollars. She gestures him forward. He sees Eames glance sharply at her, and not for the first time he thinks, _military training_. He can’t quite stop himself from brushing a reassuring hand over his shoulder as he passes, but doesn’t dare look back to see Eames’ reaction.

“Saito-san wants a word with you, Arthur dear,” she says in her softly lilting, calming voice.

“Saito-san’s on board?” Arthur asks, surprised. Usually all of them know when Saito-san gets on the plane.

“He’s flying incognito,” Mal grins. “He’s escorting his partner, Mr Fischer, to the Franchise Expo. Apparently they’ve got their eye on quite a profitable investment.” Her eyes are dancing; Mal loves gossip, always has, the juicier the better -- and what juicier gossip than the airline’s owner and his partner trying to blend in on board of one of his planes? Arthur can practically hear the _’it’s so romantic’_ that must be on the tip of her tongue.

Arthur likes Saito-san. He’s an excellent employer, very hands-on and always concerned about the well-being of his staff. Unsurprisingly, the people working for him are very loyal to him and his company, underlying threat of imminent ruination should they turn on him notwithstanding.

Arthur makes his way over to Business Class quickly enough, clearing his throat before pulling the divider curtain back.

“You wanted to see me, Saito-san.”

“Arthur! Excellent. You know Mr Fischer?”

“Only by reputation, sir. It’s an honour to meet you,” Arthur says, shaking the very handsome young man’s hand. More than that, he’s a pioneer in the field of renewable energy, something Arthur admires greatly.

“I know your piloting contract’s already been signed, but Mr Fischer is looking for a second pilot to fly his private plane, and I wonder if you would be interested? You’d still be on contract and work for Saito Industries, but we’d... loan you to Mr Fischer should the need arise.”

Arthur blinks. This is an _extremely_ lucrative proposition.

“You should know, Mr Mann, that this offer does have a catch,” Mr Fischer says softly in a surprisingly deep voice, smiling a little self-consciously. “I often loan my plane out to my friends, so, should you accept, you’d pretty much be on call 24/7 when you’re not working. It’s not a particularly relationship-friendly job.”

Arthur considers. That’s why they haven’t asked Cobb -- he’s got Mal and the kids to think of, it’s bad enough that sometimes their shifts coincide and both of them are away for whole days at a time. They’ve probably asked Yusuf, but he’s just started dating Ariadne (even though they think no one else knows about it), and he would have refused. The rest of the pilots on contract are all quite a bit older, and all of them have the commitments that come with age -- family, wives, children.

Arthur, on the other hand, has student loans to pay off. A Bachelor’s degree in Aeronautical Science comes with a _serious_ price tag, for all the incredible career prospects it offers. He is unattached (he resolutely refuses to think about Eames), hardly sees his family as it is (long live skype), has no pets, so he’s in the perfect position to accept the very generous offer. He smiles tentatively.

“I should like that very much,” he says, heart thumping in his chest. That’s definitely going on his CV, even though he’s hardly likely to need it with an employer like Saito-san.

Mr Fischer smiles back happily.

“Fantastic,” Saito says, clapping his hands together in satisfaction. “I’m glad we got that sorted out. I’ll have the paperwork amended as soon as we arrive. Where’s your first flight to?”

“New York, sir.”

~~

Arthur excuses himself shortly afterwards, hurrying down to Economy to send Mal back up. She winks at him when she sees the smile he can’t quite suppress. Most of the passengers have drifted off by now -- they are five hours into the flight, and staring out of the black windows gets tedious after a while. Ariadne has started the third film already -- a romantic comedy of some sort. Arthur notices the Mile-Highers watching raptly, holding on tightly to each other’s hands.

He makes his way along the isle slowly, checking on their section of the multitude of passengers on board. He collects a couple of empty champagne glasses from the group of three students travelling together, long blonde hair tangling until he can’t quite work out where one girl ends and the other begins. Their IDs had said twenty-two; Arthur wonders if _he_ had ever been this young and carefree. He smiles wryly. He supposes he never had the time, what with one thing and another.

A broad, warm hand snags his wrist as he passes. He looks down into Eames’ alert eyes, grey-green in the soft light. “Everything all right, Mr Eames?” he asks softly, so he doesn’t wake up the dozing six-year-old on Eames’ left.

“Me? I’m fine. What’s this I hear about this flight being your last?” Eames murmurs, so quietly that Arthur has to lean closer to hear him.

“It’s my last flight as a Flight Attendant, Mr Eames. I’ll have the pleasure of being your pilot from now on.”

Eames looks crestfallen. “But I won’t be able to _see_ you in the pilot’s cabin, and I see you rarely enough as it is!”

Arthur’s heartbeat speeds up without his permission. He’d been trying not to think about it for the past month -- that this flight might be the last time he ever sees Eames.

“Well,” he hears himself say, high on adrenaline and desperation, “perhaps you could see me off the plane for a change?” He flushes very brightly, but doesn’t take it back -- worst case scenario, he only has four more awkward hours to endure in a closed-off space with Eames. Best case scenario -- well, that’s why he _won’t_ take it back.

Eames’ eyes widen, then narrow in short order. “Arthur,” he says, and his name in _that_ voice with _that_ accent nearly undoes him. It’s worse than the damned strawberries. “Arthur, what would you do if I were to kiss you right this moment?”

Arthur has to brace himself on Eames’ strong thighs ( _oh, good lord_ ) so he doesn’t collapse to the floor when his knees give out. “Mr Eames,” is the only thing he gets out before warm, mind-blowingly soft lips press to his own.

He dimly hears a small, happy squeak behind him, from what could only be Ariadne. Damn, he’ll never hear the end of this, he thinks muzzily before Eames pulls away, gets up, dumps his notebook on the vacated seat (Arthur sees a beautifully rendered, terrifyingly accurate version of himself stare up from the page, his usually perfect hair slightly mussed so that it falls over his forehead in small waves) before he is being tugged over to the Flight Attendants’ space and the curtain is being drawn behind them by a gleeful Ariadne.

Then Eames is kissing him again, and Arthur is tugging him closer with every limb he can spare from standing upright. _Four years,_ he thinks, _**four years** of foreplay is quite long enough._

“D’you know... how long... I’ve wanted to do that,” Eames mutters in the moments he can spare from kissing Arthur everywhere he can reach.

“I think I have some idea,” Arthur gasps when Eames latches onto his earlobe. The rough stubble rubs against his jaw and neck; he’s going to have horrible stubble burn in a moment, and there are going to be funny looks and sniggers aplenty. He can’t bring himself to care, not when Eames’ weight is pinning him to the wall and Eames’ hand is winding its way underneath his waistline. Arthur paws at the zip on Eames’ baggy jeans, and Eames muffles a groan into his mouth.

On his last day as a Flight Attendant, three and a half hours before what he’d once despaired would be his last glimpse of Eames, Arthur Mann joins the Mile High Club with the man of his dreams.

~~

**Epilogue**

It’s not until five months later, when a slyly-grinning Eames comes back to their condo in L.A. with Robert Fischer and Saito-san in tow, that the jig is well and truly up. Arthur narrows his eyes in warning while Eames sidles over to kiss him, and Fischer and Saito-san make themselves at home. He only has to arch an eyebrow in question before Eames caves, obviously unable to wait any longer, and proceeds to babble about Saito, and work schedules, and lecture schedules, and flight training, and--

“Mr Eames, have you been _stalking_ me?” Arthur blurts, incredulous.

“Er. Sort of,” Eames replies, looking a lot like an adorable puppy who has just been very naughty on the living room carpet, but is nevertheless expecting to be forgiven any moment now, and will there be a lot of shouting beforehand, or can he just go over and lick his owner’s face already?

“Mr Eames is a very old family friend. I couldn’t very well say ‘no’, especially since he assured me that his intentions are entirely honourable.” It’s a good thing Arthur respects Saito-san so much, or, his boss or no, he would’ve found himself thrown out on his ass very quickly indeed. He contents himself with glaring at Eames, who is paying him no mind, and keeps _beaming_ at him. It’s unsettling.

“Why now?” Arthur wants to know. He can’t quite maintain his angry look in the face of Eames’ delighted grin.

“I’ve got to fly to the UK on Wednesday, and Rob’s lending me his plane. Naturally, I’m requesting that you fly me over -- I don’t know how long this thing is going to take.”

“You can’t just commandeer me away from work!” Arthur squawks.

Eames’ entire face falls. It would be funny, if it wasn’t making something in Arthur’s chest squeeze painfully. “You don’t want to go?” Eames asks quietly.

“I didn’t say that,” Arthur grinds out. Damn Eames’ ability to make Arthur want to make him happy!

“Good, then it’s sorted. Consider yourself on assignment as of tomorrow. You are to escort Mr Eames wherever he needs to go, and you are to be on stand-by for Mr Fischer until further notice.” Saito-san is not a man to be argued with at the best of times, and certainly not when he has that glint in his eye.

“Fine,” Arthur sighs. “But this mixing business with pleasure is bound to get complicated eventually.”

“You think too much, Darling,” Eames says happily, and throws an arm over his shoulders. Arthur leans into him, because he can’t _not_.

“I believe our business here is concluded,” Saito-san says, and tugs a grinning Robert Fischer to his feet. “We’ll be off, then.”

“Give our regards to the Duchess, Eames!” Fischer calls, and the door slams closed on Eames’ acquiescence.

“D’you really not mind?” Eames asks, like he’s making sure; the strange weight in Arthur’s chest squeezes tight again.

“Of course not. I’m right in the middle of finally getting you to throw out those hideous shirts; all my good work’s going to go to waste if I let you loose on England on your own,” Arthur says haughtily, then ruins the excellent effect by leaning closer and pressing a kiss to Eames’ jaw.

Eames snorts. “Hah! We’re going to the Land of Tweed, my lad! I’d like to see you try!”

“Paisley has nothing to do with tweed, you Neanderthal.”

“Fair point,” Eames concedes and wastes no further time steering him towards the bedroom.

“Wait, who’s the Duchess?” Arthur wonders absentmindedly; he’s far too busy kissing his way down Eames’ neck to be focusing on silly, irrelevant things.

“‘S m’mother,” Eames mutters as he falls on the bed, dragging Arthur down after him, and muffles Arthur’s panicked whimper with his laughing mouth.

END


End file.
